September 24, 2007

Isn't that easy? So easy to remember? Not that you have a bad memory, I would never suggest such a thing, but all the same, you should maybe bookmark me now. Or if you're one of my online compadres, who is kind enough to link to me, maybe you could update your link? That would be super! You want to do it now?

September 22, 2007

In England, think is just as often a noun as a verb. You don’t talk about it, or think about it, you “have a chat,” or “have a think.” Seriously. I’ve been told twice this week to “have a think,” and I sort of like the sound of it. Sounds more tangible than “thinking about.”

For instance, when trying to get a haircut I was told at noon that they could fit me in that day, at 3:00. “Let me have a chat with my husband,” I said, “and I’ll call you back.”

Earlier in the week I was told that there was space for Boyish to come to nursery for the morning session, and also space for him to come during the afternoon session, but um, no space at dinner (English for “lunch”). Could I perhaps trek up the hill and down again, with the four year-old, feed him, and then bring him back up the hill to school 45 minutes later?

Oo, let me have a think on that. I’ll let you know what I come up with.

See? I’m speaking English. You might not understand me if you’re from “the States,” as we say around here, but then again, you people need a bit of training in proper use of the language. From the founders. So, here goes, (again).

The sidewalk is the pavement, and

A guy is a bloke. An anonymous guy is John Doe to you, but Joe Bloggs over here.

There is no Jane.

If you want Sprite or 7-up, order lemonade; and if you want actual lemonade—well, too damn bad—no one seems to have any idea what it is.

Your pants are not pants, they're trousers. And if you have them altered, don’t ask for a cuff when it’s turn-up you want. Turn-ups look smart with your hideous London shoes (see above).

Or you could wear your trousers with trainers (otherwise known as sneakers), which wouldn’t be smart. But then again you wouldn’t have to change shoes if you wanted to play crouchettes after work.

Wait—I mean squash. Which is juice. If you want to eat squash, not play squash, or drink squash, you must ask for crouchettes. That’s French.

September 20, 2007

I started an internship today with English PEN, an organization that promotes literature and literacy across cultures, advocates for writers that have been imprisoned for their work, funds translations of foreign works into English, and is one of the oldest human rights organizations in the world. I’m helping out with their largest annual fundraiser, the PEN Quiz, which is a swank night when all the London publishing and media glitterati get together and compete for prizes and bragging rights by answering questions in categories like literature, history, and current events. The director of the organization is beyond charming, and the events director—the woman I will work with most closely—is a poet. Need I say more?

To get there I take the overland rail from my neighborhood to London Bridge, which is not just a nursery rhyme but also a tube station and an actual structure that spans the River Thames. Then I descend, down, down into the depths of London on the Underground, into a world of artificial lights and swirling sounds—rushing trains, murmuring voices, the muffled clip-clapping of shoe heels on hard floors, clear notes streaming down hallways as the occasional musician takes advantage of tunnel acoustics.

On the Northern Line, the platform is always crowded. Short tunnels no wider than doorways feed the platform off the main hallway, and I stand in one of these, as commuters crowd in front of and behind me. I can see the packed train through the people in front of me as it arrives on a whoosh of air; the doors open and the crowd parts just enough to let people off, and only the lucky few standing right behind the yellow line will make it onto the train before a recording of a woman’s voice announces, “Please stand cleah of the doors. This train is departing.” Then I am at the yellow line, the train so close I could press my hand on the Plexiglas window without fully extending my arm. It begins to move, gathering speed until it is no more than a red blur, and when it ends there is moment of vertigo where I am sucked into the empty space behind it.

When I emerge from the Tube, at Angel, I ascend the longest escalator in the system, 318 steps, and just like that I am in Islington, a hip north London neighborhood where there are shops and theaters and publishing houses. And although I am not paid, I am on my way to work, and even though the day is only just begun, it feels like a very good day indeed.

September 19, 2007

Because when you're 70 you'll be old, and half way to old is middle-aged. But you look good for an old woman, I think. I mean a middle-aged woman. Do you feel old? I mean middle-aged? Sorry to break it to you, but it's all uphill from here. Or downhill. But one thing it never is is dead level, which would be boring, anyway.

Babe-ish sends a hug, Girlish sends her love, and Boyish wants to come over tonight for cupcakes. Drink a glass of champagne for me. Toast yourself. Say, "To my beautiful sister, who means the world to me."

September 18, 2007

Yesterday was Boyish's first day of nursery school. Nursery here is often attached to a primary school, so he's attending school just downstairs from Girlish, and wearing a uniform just like hers. Which works, because he worships everything she does.

So he's off to school in his uniform, fussing about his shoes and his shirt. Many days, he wages war with his clothes, which includes spinning in a circle, tugging and screaming on the offending article until he is able to rip it from his body. Once freed of the shirt, underwear, socks, shoes or pants that have infuriated him, he flings them across the room. Once he threw them out the window, but because I am a hardass I have put a stop to that.

Anyway, because he was admitted to the nursery the third week of school, there were no white shirts in his size at Sainsbury's, which is the large supermarket/Wal-Mart-wannabe here. So his shirts are too big, and um, if I thought he would let me tuck them in so they wouldn't hang down to his knees, I can FORGET IT. The deal we struck is that he has to wear his "jumper" (that's English for sweatshirt) over the too-long shirt. No jumper, we tuck the shirt in.

So far, that's working--but don't get me started on shoes.

All this week they're "phasing him in," so he's attending from 9 to 11:30, and then next week we'll hopefully be in for some full days. He would be happy to go all day, of course, but I get it--the sissy kids need the phase-in, so phase in we must. Which means three 20-minute trips up the hill to school this week, every day, and three 15-minute trips back. It's a pretty steep hill, did I mention that?

Here's a picture of the Head Teacher's big bell. I'm afraid to ask her if I can have a shot of her ringing it. I'll have to butter her up some. But that's for later, right now I've got pack Babe-ish in the buggy and head back up the hill. Anything for my chickens, right? And all this uphill walking is bound to be good for my ass.

September 17, 2007

Over the last week some people--old friends, acquaintances, and random strangers--have come out of the woodwork and emailed me, saying kind things about how they've been reading and enjoying my little blog project. I don't know what prompted it exactly, or why it's happening now, but I have to say, publicly, that it means a hell of a lot. This blogging thing is both creative and therapeutic for me. It's not only a way of sharing my life with friends and family that are far from me, but a way of letting go of things that are bugging me, or quieting some small idea that's rattling around in my head. And although I can see how many clicks I get each day, I can't really see where they're coming from, or how many live human beings are associated with those clicks. Most people don't comment (don't be so damn shy, people!), so sometimes it feels like writing into the void.

But it's not, and that's part of what's so wonderful about it. Knowing that people are reading, even if I never hear from them, makes all the difference in the world. So thank you thank you thank you, whoever's out there reading. Even if I never hear from you (oh, say it won't be so!), I appreciate the time you spend here.

September 14, 2007

On walking home from dropping Girlish at school, I’m strolling along the High Street, Babe-ish in the buggy and Boyish tagging along, and I hear behind me, “Mommy, it’s an emergency! It’s an emergency!”

Boyish is potty-trained, right? But he also hates to go to the bathroom, and therefore he often finds himself desperate at the most inconvenient times. I wheel around, expecting to find him dancing on the pavement, clutching his crotch. “Do you have to go the bathroom?” I ask.

“No.”

He always says no. Then I hear it. A siren, close by. “Oh, right,” I say “you mean the siren?”

He nods.

“They're hurrying to help somebody. They’re saying, ‘Get out of the way!’”

I try to be a good person. I try to give way, on the sidewalk, in the road, in line for groceries or stamps. I try to smile, and be kind to people. I try to be honest, even when that’s difficult. I think it’s important. I try to be rational. When I feel very strongly that I am entirely in the right, I know that I must not be. I try to figure out how I might be at fault, how I might stand in the other person’s shoes and see how what I’ve done, or not done, how I could have contributed to the problems between us. I try to set my emotions aside, and remember that no matter how angry I am, some things are more important than being right. Or feeling right.

But I won’t lie here: it’s not easy. I like being right as much as anyone does, and maybe more so. I’ve been told over the years that I am “competitive,” and “aggressive,” and “harsh,” and sometimes I feel like the people around me are unjustifiably afraid of me, or afraid of what I might do, or say. And their fear? It feels like judgment, and it makes me angry.

And then I do slip, and say something that I regret as soon as it’s out of my mouth—or worse, say something I think is perfectly appropriate until someone checks me. And then that fear I mentioned? It feels like judgment and it makes me really, deeply, unsure of myself. Which I don’t like. And which pisses me off.

I wonder, then, am I mean, and I don’t even know it? That in spite of all my trying to be good, and live right, and do good even when it costs me—in money, time, or pride—that maybe I’m just delusional. Maybe I just hold onto superficial nice things I do, or say, or think as evidence that I’m a good person. But in reality—some indefinable something that everybody but me can see—I’m really just a stone-cold bitch.

It shuts me down. Makes it hard to think, hard to write, hard to talk.

You want to know a secret? Mental illness runs in my family. My grandmother had breakdowns, more than one. At least two of my great uncles killed themselves; and in my parent’s generation at least two more suicides—that I know of. And although suicidal isn’t my problem (I have others) I worry about going crazy. Specifically, that I might go crazy and not be able to stop it, or not be able to recognize that it’s happening to me.

Or sometimes I worry that I might already be crazy. Because that’s the way it happens, right? From inside your own head you can’t tell. You think what you’re doing makes perfect sense.

September 13, 2007

Maybe not the actual very first steps, but she's only been getting more than four in a row for the last couple of days. She was really hot for the transformer I was tempting her with. Babe-ish is beating the family walking record by more than two months. She's speshul.